The Bewitching Hour
by LadyKailitha
Summary: Every year on the anniversary of the end of the war between vampires and werewolves, the Ministry of Supernatural Defence throws a ball. This year vampire brothers, Mycroft and Sherlock find that werewolves aren't the beasts they always assumed they were.


**A/N: Please don't hate me. I know this isn't the next chapter of "A Shift in Priorities" but Halloween is my favorite holiday and I so wanted to do something fun. 5000 words later...yeah. That's me, can't keep it short worth a damn. But at least it's fun. For the most part. Because another thing I can't help is giving our boys tragic backstories.  
**

 **Also if you haven't read my stories before Langdale Pike is a minor character from the original stories by ACD and is described as the Anti-Milverton (Magnusson to you TV only folks) and in my head is Tom Hiddleston.**

 **Tobias Gregson is Lestrade's rival in the original stories, and Sherlock actually calls him by his first name. And in my head is Peter Capaldi (Doctor Who).**

 **Also, thanks to my beta, Old Ping Hai, who because this was sooo long (I usually break it up into two when it gets this long because it's easier on both of us) could only go through it once. I am forever grateful to her. We have been together for three years now, so this is dedicated to her. What I love best about our relationship is that we are constantly learning new ways to speed up the editing process and make it better. Here's to at LEAST another three years, love!**

* * *

 _ **Foreword:**_

 _The war between the lycan and the vampyr ended in 1715, when George I stepped in and declared it finished. A mere mortal. He dragged the war out into the public and showed it for what it really was, a pissing match. Each side sure that they were superior to other. But the king showed them what they could accomplish together._

 _He also took a werewolf and a vampire and made them his supernatural advisors. He created the Ministry of Supernatural Defence to police the two sides and staffed it with werewolves, vampires, and specially trained humans. The first Minister was a werewolf, but that position had changed many hands since, some of them werewolves (including one notable Lord in Queen Victoria's time) and the position was currently headed by a vampire, Mycroft Holmes._

 _Mycroft is the eldest of two vampire brothers, a rarity in the vampire community, as blood relations are unlikely to want to infect their loved ones. The younger, Sherlock, is more capricious, almost rakish, spending his time with his wild pursuits and outlandish behavior._

 _The current werewolf advisor was one Tobias Gregson, former Chief Superintendent of the Scotland Yard and head of one of the largest civilian packs in London._

 _The current vampire advisor was Langdale Pike, head of the most prominent fashion magazine and Editor in Chief of the largest gossip magazine in London._

 _It used to be that a werewolf had one pack and only one pack, even if the werewolf's profession took him far afield from that pack. But they had learned the hard way that werewolves will form packs wherever they go and there was a lot of blood shed over who was the alpha in places like the military, government, and places like the police force and fire brigades where the werewolf would be thrown into high-stress situations. Having a secondary pack eased the stress for the werewolf._

 _They also learned that military werewolves had a hard time going from the high-stress world of combat to their civilian packs. That, too, was learned the hard way. So the MoSD set up a foster program where returning werewolves would be placed into secondary packs with the police and fire fighters to slowly ease them into society again._

 _Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade headed up one of these foster packs; he currently had one secret service agent, two Royal marines, and a wounded army doctor named John Watson._

 _Every year on Halloween the Minister of Supernatural Defence would throw a party celebrating the end of the war. This year was going to be special, it being the 300th anniversary._

* * *

"Remind me why I do this every year?" Mycroft groused, pressing his fingers to sides of his nose.

Sherlock chuckled into his wine glass, "Because it is your duty as Minister of Supernatural Defence."

Mycroft enjoyed his job the other 364 days of the year, but this one night made him want to reconsider his career choices.

Werewolves were genial the rest of the year, able to hold their drink, and generally interesting companions. However this night they were prone to drunken displays and rowdy behavior. The night was young and there had been no incidents as of yet, but he was not looking forward to moonrise with any sort of pleasure.

"Fine, but whose brilliant idea was it to have it on Halloween?" Mycroft hissed.

"A jumped up king with a terrible sense of humor. Besides, it's tradition. I thought that was your bread and butter, brother dear?" Sherlock swirled his glass of blood, a droll expression on his face.

"Not when it comes to _werewolves_ ," Mycroft groaned. He said the last word like 'mongrel'.

Sherlock laughed.

Mycroft heaved out a heavy sigh. "At least I have you to share in my misery."

"And have done these 135 years," Sherlock sneered, his expression turning cold.

"It's best if that whole incident was forgotten, Sherlock. That was not a good time for either of us, and you are not to blame for what happened."

Sherlock looked up and sighed, "Am I not? How I am not to blame for the murder of our parents and our older brother?"

"Because it was the fault of the vampire that turned you, sun take his soul. He turned you and then abandoned you. It wasn't your fault that you sought the refuge of home. Our parents weren't even supposed to be in town that night, and what Sherrinford was doing there at all I'll never know. But none of that is your fault. Nor was the fact that I was the only one that turned and not the rest." Mycroft took Sherlock in his arms and held him tight.

Sherlock swiftly moved the wine glass out of the way and let his brother hold him. After pulling away he handed the warm liquid to his brother. "I think you need this more than I do."

Mycroft chuckled and took the drink, sipping judiciously. He took another, longer draft. He was thirstier than he thought.

"Mycroft, when was the last time you fed? And I don't mean that reheated bottle shit that you've had as night caps," Sherlock said, with a glare.

Mycroft sighed and took another drink of the wine before answering. "The blood of humans these days is so lifeless. They don't have much to fear anymore, and it has made their blood dull."

Sherlock grinned and with a saucy wink said, "Not if taken during sex." Sherlock waved and then vanished into the crowd.

Mycroft looked down at the nearly empty glass and sighed again. He squared his shoulders. It was time to stop with this nonsense; he was a vampire, ancient and old, and it was time to hunt.

He put the glass on the tray of a passing waiter and melted into the crowd.

* * *

"Greg-" John began, but was cut off by his alpha.

"Shut it, John," Greg growled. "All you've done since I told you the whole pack had to be here tonight was moan and groan."

John looked up at Greg, his big blue eyes wide as he fluttered his eyelashes.

Greg laughed. "Nice try, but the puppy dog look hasn't worked on me since my sisters and I were pups."

John sighed and dropped his eyes to to his shoes. "It's just that I was never much of a social person to begin with, and events like this make me uncomfortable."

"That's bollocks and you know it. You forget I have more than your military and psych profiles. I actually talked both to people in your unit and the members of your civilian pack. You five years ago would have eaten this up. Hell, you five _months_ ago would have eaten this up."

John sighed. He knew Greg was right. He had friends and lovers aplenty wherever he went before he had been shot with a silver round, but now with his military career gone and the ability to perform surgery obliterated, he had been depressed for a long time.

Still, he tugged on the band of his fancy bow tie and grumbled. "I feel more like a collared dog at the moment."

Greg wagged his eyebrows at him, "Kinky."

"Fuck off!" John said, playfully pushing on his alpha's arm.

Greg laughed and let him. "You know you need to get out more. It's part of the process to get you fit for society and you know it."

John stuck out his tongue at the grey wolf. Only he did know what would happen if he went home before he was given leave to by Greg. If his alpha was kind, banishment. If not, being torn to pieces by the adults of the pack was not something he looked forward to. The whining, whimpering, and lashing out that a returning soldier often faced frightened young ones and could result in premature shifting. Something that did more harm than good. So alphas used to dole out punishments should such a thing occur, and when word got around that's what returning soldiers faced, they would commit suicide rather than face that, so the Ministry of Supernatural Defence came up with the foster program and it saved a good deal many lives.

Didn't mean he had to like it. But it also meant he was stuck at the biggest event the supernatural had to offer in all of Great Britain.

"I'm going to grab another drink and maybe a dance partner or three," Greg said and then bared his teeth. "And you will get out there and dance at LEAST once!"

The Detective Inspector stalked off into the crowd, leaving behind a stunned army doctor.

As much as John would have liked, there was no way to disobey a direct order from his alpha, so he growled low and then followed the grey wolf into the throng of people.

* * *

Mycroft waltzed through the crowd, dancing with vampire and werewolf alike. He knew that ultimately he would be feasting on a werewolf, not that vampires weren't palatable- their blood was very sweet, most likely to discourage vampires from feeding on other members of their race with impunity.

The werewolves he danced with smelled wild. It was sharp to his heightened senses. Everyone he danced with moved with desire, knowing full well that whoever he chose would be in his bed. A mark of high esteem, as he rarely partook.

He twirled the latest, a dark-haired beauty in a flowing white dress that gracefully flared in a magnificent circle. But he passed her into the waiting arms of another werewolf, who was more than happy to take his leavings. But he felt dissatisfied. None of them felt right. He stood in the center of the room and closed his eyes to the discord he felt inside himself.

What was it about the companions he chose that left him feeling discontented? He walked himself mentally through his dance partners and noticed with startling clarity that they were all women. He had known from a young age that he preferred the company of men. But the time he had been born into had made that all but impossible. Even after he was turned, he drank solely from women to avoid being hunted by the masses.

And it was hard to break old habits. But the times had marched on and he no longer needed to play that game. Mycroft opened his eyes, scanning the crowd for what he wanted. What he truly wanted.

There.

He caught up the passing alpha in his arms and swirled him into the throng of dancers. The alpha gasped in surprise, his dark brown eyes wide.

"My lord-" the man stammered as he gripped Mycroft's arms and fought to keep with the dance.

"You may call me Mycroft," the vampire whispered in his ear.

"Mycroft...oh god." The alpha struggled to find his breath as he found his feet, moving into the dance with all the grace afforded to his race.

"Not quite, but this is where you tell me your name. Or should I deduce it?' Mycroft purred into his ear.

"It's..." the alpha could barely string words together.

"Hmm...deducing it is then. You don't run a civilian pack, though you used to until your mate betrayed you. Formal bearing says military, but you are far too relaxed in your hair and style. So police or fire brigade, and as you don't smell of smoke, police it is, then.

"There are many stations in London, but you're far too proud to belong to any of them except for the Metropolitan police force of the city of London, better known as New Scotland Yard or the Met.

"Now there are seven packs in the Met, one over all of the other six and then one for each of the departments. Of those six, two are female, one is of Indian descent, one is black, and of the remaining two, you are far too experienced to be the newly appointed Ian Dimmock, which leaves one Gregory Lestrade."

"Wow."

Mycroft chuckled. "You are easily impressed."

Greg stood up straight and looked Mycroft in the eye. "I'm really not. That was incredible."

"Thank you," Mycroft said. He leaned in close to Greg's neck and inhaled deeply. "You smell divine."

Every instinct in Greg's body clamored for him to run from the vampire, to bite, to claw, to rend, anything to get away. But this was too good an opportunity to pass up and he tilted his head back to give Mycroft better access.

"You smell so good, Gregory," Mycroft purred into his neck.

Greg moaned, feeling the drag of warm breath across his throat. He could barely breathe waiting for the final strike that would be the sinking of fangs into his neck to drain his blood.

Suddenly he was being spun away from Mycroft, leaving his body feeling bereft. The vampire chuckled.

"Not yet," Mycroft said, bringing the werewolf back and pressing against him. "I want to savor it. Meet me by the rose terrace at one o'clock. I'll make it very much worth your while."

Greg huffed in annoyance. "The party ends at midnight."

Mycroft stepped away, and as he walked backwards into the crowd. "Yes, it does."

Greg moaned out loud, watching the vampire meld into the throng of people and vanish.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there, but suddenly he was flanked by two of his pack.

"Boss?" Sally asked.

"Was that Lord Holmes?" Phillip blurted.

"Yep," Greg muttered, still staring at the place Mycroft had vanished into.

"Wow," they both breathed.

"What did he want?" Sally asked, suspicious.

"What every sexy as hell vampire wants; to shag me into any flat surface and drain me of my life's blood."

Sally and Phillip shared a concerned glance.

He looked at each one in turn before walking away, "I think I'm going to enjoy every minute of it."

* * *

"I see you like playing with dogs, Lord Holmes," an oily voice said from behind the vampire. "I hope you don't get fleas. I hear they are _murder_."

Mycroft sighed but didn't bother to turn around. "Safer than playing with snakes, Mr Magnusson. Particularly venomous ones."

"Are you saying that that you think I'm dangerous?" Magnusson asked, placing his hand on his chest with a wounded look.

Mycroft turned to the other man, "One cannot help one's nature, but you were vicious before someone did the world a disfavor and made you a vampire."

Magnusson hissed and bared his fangs.

"Tut, tut, Charlie dear," a warm velvet voice purred.

"No one asked you, _Pike_ ," Magnusson growled.

Mycroft chuckled. "Hello, Langdale," he said kissing the newcomer on both cheeks. "Not that I don't mind seeing you, but I have been dealing with creatures worse than this in my day...well, night job."

Langdale Pike giggled. "I know, but I do love to make Charlie here squirm."

Magnusson crossed his arms and huffed at them.

"I saw you with that yummy werewolf earlier, Mycroft dear. Please tell me you are going to do more than waltz with him. Like the tango, perhaps?" Langdale gushed, completely ignoring the Nordic vampire.

"He seems to think I'll get fleas," Mycroft said, tossing his head at Magnusson.

Magnusson sighed as though bored with the whole thing. "Well, that is the price you pay for dealing with such vermin."

Langdale laughed. "Well, you would know all about that, wouldn't you, Charlie dear?"

Magnusson took a step back. "I don't know what you mean."

"Of course you do. Why just last month, I saw you coming out of Dulce de la Lune," Langdale twittered.

Magnusson was pale due to his condition as a vampire, but now he went almost chalk white.

"Dulce de la Lune?" Mycroft queried. "Isn't that the most prestigious gay werewolf bar in London?"

Magnusson turned green at that point, his hand pressed over his mouth.

"Indeed, and in the arms of the Queen's Dog, too," Langdale crowed.

Magnusson turned and scrambled away with all the grace of a newborn foal.

Mycroft's and Langdale's laughs followed him through the crowd.

Langdale turned to Mycroft and said with a saucy wink, "Never mind Gregson was dragging him to toss him out on his rear."

Mycroft shook his head. "You, my dear, are a very bad man."

"And you love me."

"But please don't call your fellow advisor a dog, not tonight. I have enough trouble as it without the old man challenging you to a duel or some other such nonsense," Mycroft implored.

Langdale sighed. "But only for you, darling."

"Thank you."

* * *

Greg rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. The other alpha hunched over, coiled, ready to strike. They were in the library where Greg had been dragged after he went in search of that drink he never got.

"You take that back, Tobias," Greg snarled. "You may be in the Queen's bed, but you aren't my alpha. I am my alpha. I only answer to one man and that isn't you. Not anymore."

The other werewolf growled. "And you would bed a blood-binger!"

"Who I shag or don't, isn't any of your concern, Tobias." Greg started unbuttoning his shirt. "This whole party is about cooperation and if you can't get your head out of your scrawny old arse, we are going to tangle."

Greg threw off his jacket and then unbuttoned his cuffs, "You really want to do this here, because I will." He kicked off his boots and tossed his shirt the same direction of the jacket.

Gregson's lip curled. "You can't do anything to me, cur. I have diplomatic immunity."

Greg scoffed. "Who said anything about the law? There was a way we handled things before the _law_." Greg shifted, his trousers falling off as his waist narrowed and tail sprouted. He kicked free of them and charged.

Gregson cowered, throwing up his arms and stumbled into a chair, almost knocking it over.

The grey wolf that was Greg Lestrade bristled. "I dare you to shift," the low rumble snarled.

Gregson growled and sprang from the chair, a black and grey mottled wolf. But before he could attack, a voice cracked out.

"Enough!"

Gregson dropped to floor and turned.

"We warned you what would happen if you continued this overly aggressive stance on vampire-kind."

Greg shifted back, hard. He landed on his arse, buck-naked, staring up at Queen Elizabeth II. He scrambled for his trousers and managed to put them on, before she made it across the room.

"Vampires killed my son," Gregson growled.

"No, Tobias, Jeremy's obsession with immortality killed him."

Gregson hung his head. "He was my light."

"Find a new light, Tobias." She turned to Greg. "I know he's a hard-headed idiot most of the time, but next time please refrain from challenging Our werewolf advisor."

Greg bowed. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"You have Our permission to leave," she said.

Greg picked up the rest of his clothes and grabbed his shoes. He made it to the door before she added, "Bed him well, God knows that he needs to unwind. He's so tightly wound that We fear he will break. And We need my Minister in top shape."

Greg's mouth dropped and blushed. He dashed off to the sounds of the Queen's laughter.

* * *

On his way to find something more...tantalizing to drink than that bagged stuff they were passing off as fresh from the vein, when Sherlock saw the last two people in the world that he would want to see in the same hemisphere, let alone conversing. Irene Adler and Jim Moriarty.

He wouldn't call them exes per se, but former acquaintances didn't cover the depth of their relationships.

Sherlock had run around with Irene during World War I playing at spies and getting into as much trouble as a pair of young vampires could get into. They had slept together, but only for appearance's sake. They both knew that they preferred their own gender than that of the opposite sex. But while vampires weren't hunted in most of the world, there were still places where a vampire might not make it out alive. Add homosexuality to that, and the places that weren't safe expanded by a lot.

Moriarty was a different kettle of fish altogether. They didn't have sex, but Sherlock suspected that Jim wanted to. Sherlock had hooked up with the viper at a time in his life when he thought he wanted to see the world burn. He and Moriarty set out to do just that. They hadn't even been together a decade when Sherlock realized that it wasn't just willful rebellion with Moriarty, it was a genuine desire.

Sherlock split from the vampire and spent the last forty years avoiding the man. And he was going to continue that trend, thank you. He turned and barreled into someone.

"Oh excuse me," he muttered, trying to untangle himself from the person's arms.

There was a warm chuckle, "You're fine. Seems like you're in a hurry there."

Sherlock looked up to see a blonde werewolf smiling down at him. "Oh, you are _fine,_ " the werewolf said and then licked his lips. Sherlock blushed at the implication.

"You can let me go now," Sherlock murmured.

"And if I don't want to?" the blond rumbled.

"I don't even know your name," Sherlock protested.

"John Watson," he replied with a grin. "Now, what's your objection?"

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said.

"Well, I still don't hear an objection in there. Come let's dance, see if we can't lose whatever was chasing you, eh?"

Sherlock nodded and let himself be led onto the dance floor.

After a moment or two of just letting himself feel, John looked up at his partner. "So what on earth would make someone like you turn tail?"

"Well, you see there are these two exes, well I say exes, but-" Sherlock rambled.

John put a finger on Sherlock's lips. "Say no more. I get it. Two of the last people on earth you want to see and they are probably talking, most likely about you, and you really don't want to be anywhere near something like that."

Sherlock's shoulders slumped in relief. "I was about to start babbling, wasn't I?"

"Hey, it's fine. It's all fine," John assured him.

"My brother tells me that I talk too much," Sherlock admitted shyly.

"Nonsense, you have a lovely voice. I'd be happy to listen to you all night."

It was then he was roughly pushed to the side. "Oi! Wait your turn," John shouted.

John got a good look at the intruder. He was only a little taller than John, with slicked back, black hair, and dark eyes. The man screamed vampire.

"Jim," Sherlock greeted coldly.

John looked up at Sherlock sharply and then back to Jim. "Yeah, I'd see why you'd want to get the hell out of Dodge if it was this fucker you wanted to avoid."

"Oh, don't be like that, Sherlock. We were sooo good together," Jim drawled.

"We really weren't," Sherlock said, shortly.

"I didn't think you were dog type. Though I suppose people _are_ fond of their pets."

John bristled.

"We could be brilliant together again. Irene was telling me all about your little predilection for the boys. Think of the mischief we could get up to, in and out of bed," Jim purred.

It made John feel slimy all over.

"Not interested, Moriarty," Sherlock bit out through clenched teeth.

"I would let you get back to your dog in heat, but why debase yourself on something so obviously inferior," Jim sneered.

Sherlock didn't see what happened next, even with his preternatural senses. All he could recall was a snarl followed by a roar, and then there was a tan wolf pinning Moriarty to floor, teeth inches from the vampire's throat.

"Shit," Moriarty cursed.

Sherlock looked up to see that a crowd had gathered and there were people pushing their way to forefront.

Greg, Sally, and Phillip pushed through one end of the rough circle, and Mycroft appeared at the other.

Greg looked up at Mycroft for permission. Mycroft waved his hand, giving it.

Greg walked up to the center of the circle. "Either you are the dumbest piece of shite I have ever laid eyes on or you don't know much about werewolves."

"Just get it off me!" Jim snarled.

"So both," Greg muttered shaking his head. "Anyone with a lick of sense knows that you don't come between a werewolf and whoever he's courting, especially not this close the full moon. I should just let him finish you off, but then you'd leave a mess on Lord Holmes's lovely carpet and I would hate to get on his bad side."

Moriarty's lips curled in disdain. "Let him kill me."

Greg laughed. "Not on your life. Stand down!" the last comment directed at John. The tan wolf sprang away, landing neatly next to Sherlock.

Mycroft rubbed his temple. "Captain Watson, would you be so kind to change back, please?"

John seemed to ripple and then stood before the crowd, stark naked. He met every stare head on.

"Thank you," Mycroft sighed. He turned to the vampire who was picking himself up off the floor.

"Westwood," Moriarty said, by way of complaint, dusting off the front of his jacket.

"Jim Moriarty, I warned you what would happen if you shadowed my brother's doorstep again," Mycroft said, his voice emitting a deadly calm.

"I'd like to see you try," Jim scoffed.

"By Her Royal Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, I, Minister of Supernatural Defence do hereby revoke your invitation to Great Britain."

Jim's face transformed into a snarl of terror and rage as suddenly his form was being dragged across the floor and he clawed at the floor.

"No!" he screamed.

Sherlock waved his fingers at Moriarty as the vampire vanished through the doors. He turned to his brother. "Do you think he's headed for France or Ireland?"

"Most likely France. It's closer, less water to cross," Mycroft said. He looked at John with a questioning eyebrow.

"As much as I realize that werewolves are quite comfortable with nudity, but could you please cover up with something," Mycroft implored.

"I'd know what I'd cover him with," Sally murmured appreciatively.

Greg rolled his eyes. "Go," he told his beta.

She took in one final look of John's naked form and licked her lips, before turning on her heel and doing as her alpha bid.

Sherlock removed his suit jacket and handed it out to John, his cheeks flushed.

John grabbed it and used it to draw Sherlock close enough to whisper in his ear, "Thank you."

It sent a shiver down Sherlock's back.

Greg coughed discreetly and they sprang apart, Sherlock looking sheepish and John looking triumphant.

John threw the jacket on and because of his and Sherlock's obvious height differences, it came to mid-thigh.

Greg barked out a laugh. "You look like a kid playing dress-up with daddy's suits."

John glared at his alpha.

"Sherlock, why don't you take him home to either get new clothes or to stay, if that is what you prefer," Mycroft said with a wink.

Sherlock's eyes went wide, but nodded.

He led John out and Mycroft could hear, "Screw going to my place, you can take me back to yours. I'd like to see you out of more than just your jacket."

Sherlock shivered in anticipation, "Baker Street it is then."

"That soldier fellow could be the making of my brother, or make him worse than ever," Mycroft groused.

"Oh come on," Greg protested.

"Your packmate has turned my sexually forward brother into a blushing virgin in the quarter of an hour since they met.'

Greg raised his eyebrows. "Oh."

"Yes, 'oh'," Mycroft agreed.

"Well, then," Greg whistled low and long. He looked up at Mycroft and said, "I bet I could do the same to you."

Mycroft leaned really close, "Do your worst."

Greg's grin split his face. "Oh, I intend to do my best."


End file.
